


Salvation No More

by Noid



Category: Fear & Hunger (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Flashbacks, Fluff, Growing Relationships, Horror, Implies D'arce/Le'garde, My own ending because I haven't finished the game but I WANTED TO WRITE FOR THIS GAME, PTSD, mentions of assault
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2020-11-26 14:24:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20931698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Noid/pseuds/Noid
Summary: A story based around the escape of all four of our main protagonists. How will they develop now?





	1. Chapter 1

It was a rainy day when they had given their memorial to those who had never survived the dungeons of Fear and Hunger. War-torn bodies and aching eyes found themselves disassociated from the small circle that they had formed, candles burning barely through the heavy downpour of evening, an hour before nightfall. Not a single one could keep their eyes off the burning flames as their minds fled elsewhere, dragging awful details back into their bodies.

Even as they sat still, near the outskirts of the Kingdom of Rondon, their limbs ached as though they had experienced a great blow or a thick, vile infection. They had held their weapons for far too long as sleep evaded them. Even when one took watch, two more awoke to the sounds of a distance drip or the inner screams of what they had dealt with in that ungodly hour.

So many lives had been lost in that dungeon. Though it was a handful in comparison to battlefields, those that had died were made useful or were long since forgotten beneath the depths. Piled high corpses were made for climbing and those that weren't eaten were left to rot in hopes of attracting attention elsewhere to avoid being seen. Everyone had been a nameless corpse and even those that still wandered had lost their minds to the endless sounds and wails that had never accepted death.

D'arce Cataliss, the honorable Knight and one of the female survivors of this deadly campaign, is the first to cry. 

She had gone to those dungeons to search for the one man she had ever felt comfortable with in her life. The woman had left her mark in the dungeons and was punished by both guard and cavedweller, being beaten into near unconscious and forced to outlast torture. Even when she had been so close to her beloved Captain of the Midnight Sun knights... She was too late. All she could see as she closed her eyes, trying to remember the best thoughts of him, she realized that he was never coming home. Her last vision of him was that he had been slit at the throat and left to die.

And she didn't save him.

Her tears push daggers in the other's. None of them had come out with any kind of prize, for each one needed the Captain she had fallen for. Ragnvaldr would never avenge his fallen family, all of whom was taken to death's arms by Le'garde's filthy blade and Cahara had needed the man for money. To save the woman he had promised to come back for and his potential child. He had yet to return to his potential payers and receive coin. He didn't think he would get a single one since he had failed.

Enki felt lucky. He looked up from his own flame and watched the other three. Cahara was the only one with dry eyes and Ragnvaldr's cheeks remained clean, save for the rain water. The dark priest had made it out with more knowledge than he had going in. He had never been able to meet the man who he had originally went in for...

But he came out with more than what he his comrades had. He considered himself one of the luckiest people, save for the constant whispers in his head that pried on his body for blood magic. 

One by one, they proceeded to snuff out their candles before the wind carried the flames away into the cold darkness. Despite their differences, D'arce and Ragnvaldr lived near one another, particularly for moral support. They didn't mind each other's company as much as when they had first met, with the outlander threatening to remove her head from her shoulders. 

He escorted her home.

Enki disappeared into the woodlands, traversing a path deer had made into an old hut. People wouldn't bother him out here and the other three didn't like to travel through the woods anymore. At least for now.

Cahara himself, with a potential child coming swiftly, made his way back to the ever bustling brothel. He had already informed his beloved of what he had gone through. There was enough trauma in his eyes and his body that she had believed him and was afraid for his wellbeing.

The mercenary stayed inside for the time being.

Each one of them are upset; forced to remember the assaults, the hands crawling over their bodies and the gore that had filled up their dirtied lungs. Blinking resulted in furious flashes that burned their eyes and nightmares were extremely common. None of them had even slept on the first night when arriving at the Kingdom's domain. How could they when they saw horrors beyond imagination? How could they when not all of it had completely sunken in yet as they relished in the glory of finally, finally escaping?

It was the third night in a row where none of them could sleep despite their everlasting fatigue. 

It was the third night in a row where the four survivors mourned and peace felt so far away.


	2. Chapter 2

The sun was beginning to already share its warm glow. Only then did Enki _finally_ feel the ache in his body. It was a seething ache, that of which wasn't warm but a solid knot that gnawed at his spine. He needed sleep, craved sleep. He was a newborn again and needed more sleep than what any other adult at his age needed. There was a wonder if this everlasting weariness would actually ever retire from him. The dark priest doubted it as he stared at the ceiling, his drawn curtains letting in slivers of light that was as light as the color of his hair. It was pretty and it began to swallow the glow of his candle that had melted almost all the way down through the night.

Despite sleep calling to him and his body trying to shut down, he rubbed at his face and sat upright. There was a crack along his spine and his neck felt swollen with agony. He longed for a hot bath but that was close to impossible at this moment, what with the plague swallowing up any water systems with disease and moldy flesh. He doubted he could even find a stream in the woods that would be free of the plague and even if he did, it was too cold to submerge.

It took him a while to rise out of bed. The dark priest found himself staring at his hands, scarred from how many times he had sliced his hands open to summon entity's of blood. After having read the cursed Necronomicon, a book made from the flesh of humans, he had found power in his own lifeforce. As he searched for answers and more knowledge, he had come to the conclusion that his blood was more than ever had met the eye. It kept him alive and it was given to the Gods and Old Ones for power that was returned to him. His body was a tool and he would use himself until his last breath.

He walked to the kitchen, rifling through some of the goods he had been able to buy from a lowly merchant with the silver he had found within the belly of the dungeons. All of the silver felt worthless, really. Why bargain with molded ore when you can barter or trade your life in the dangers of dungeons? 

Black beans with a strong smell were ground into a powder. It took him longer than usual to do so. His strength was not all there and his hands were severely sore. He would have to put bandages on them later, or he would reopen those old wounds of sacrifice again.

The last of collected rain water was used to make one of the strongest drinks Europe had ever come to know. It had been brought through Asia after being used in the South African region for a boost of health and speed for the morning. All he had to do was take the remaining water and boil it to distill the ground up beans into a single cup of black water. What took the longest was heating up the water on the stove that barely held its light together as the colder months stumbled its way through like another ghoul to suck up a soul.

As he waited for the water to boil in a small pot, Enki wrapped himself in furs Ragnvaldr had collected on his most recent hunts. Some of these hunts were only hours after the escape. As of now, rabid wolves proved to be no match for the man that had seen the horrors just like they all had. He had skinned them after taking their meat for the four man crew and then the rest of the city. Or, at least what was left of it.

Enki sat silently on a nearby stool, wrapped up in furs and feeling unbothered to change out of his nighttime attire. Why should he when no one was coming to visit him?‌ Even if they did, he would just keep the door shut. No one needed him at this point in time for anything.

Within ten minutes, a hot cup of coffee was sitting in his hands. Grey eyes stared down into the black water, watching the slightest ripples become applied to it from his breath alone.

The dark priest knew he couldn’t sit there for an eternity and waste away to nothing. He could only imagine how the others felt, as he was the only group member to really feel even remotely at peace as he had no serious woes tied back in that damned place. Then again, perhaps, he might as well have wasted away. He didn’t have anything to do, nothing to really live for. Sure, his own life was tested against the deepest depths of hell as though he was nothing more than a maggot and he fought hard to live through it all, but what was the point? His life was feeble in this body. He felt the need to move away from these stretching domains of blood and flesh, to disperse into the wilds of an existence far beyond the reach of man.

He glanced up towards the blocked window. He suddenly felt no need to go outside at all. There was no need to even take a sip of what he had just brewed and what was the point in taking out breakfast? He could just waste away, provide food for the flies and carry onwards. All he needed to do was die, turn to dust and age into nothingness.

The priest glanced back down to his cup, empty thoughts going through his head.‌ A face of old ruin stared back at him, hollow, wrinkled and dying.

With a shriek, the cup was dropped to the floor with a shattering sound of glass no one could hear.

No one could hear it but he, who carried himself towards the corner and hid his face in the furs.

* * *

There was, at least, something he could do in this Kingdom he somewhat relied on. The library they had was vast enough for his liking, containing only a few parchments that he had seen before he had ever arrived at its dilapidated doorsteps. 

The Kingdom of Rondon loved its history, as any other place does. They prided on their witch hunts, their righteousness in remembering the Old Ones. Their history was piled up on winning wars, civil rights and how they were so good to their region that they had brought back a population of bird that hadn't been seen in decades. Enki knew that most of it was bullshit as grand castles with even grander history had the highest body count beneath their feet.

Only winners wrote stories.

Thin, scarred fingers glided over book spines. Each leather binding had something a little more to it, whether it was manufactured by hand or by loom, or if it was something to do with how the fur was washed or handled by the hunters that handed over the goods for coin and food.

An olive green, ox-fur bound book, was where his hand stopped in the same way a diviner felt for the energy's of their tarot cards. There was a warmth to this book, asking for his hand and his eyes to fall upon its old texts. It did not call nearly as strongly as the Necronomicon had but it was there and it was enough to catch his full interest in this tall, overly-glorified building.

Two, gloved fingers hooked into the leather spine and dragged it out, letting it lay on top of more books that recollected Rondon's history and teachings of Gro-goroth. He had read quite a bit back in the dungeons about the Old Gods but new information never hurt. Or at least it wasn't supposed to.

Five books in total were sprawled across the nearest table, providing him a birds eye view of what to read first. He could spend all day in the library and skip eating again, but the problem was that he would eventually be too hungry and tired to press on with drinking in books. Eventually, his eyes would roll into the back of his head and he would promptly pass out. Enki wanted all of the time in the world to read so he would just have to gather some food later before the taverns closed down for the day. Surely that would be enough.

For the rest of the morning, the dark priest read over his books, touching the olive-green book first.

The text was strange. He could scarcely decipher the words that were written and took great pleasure in attempting to wring out the knots of the language. It kept him busy, after all, and being busy meant less strange occurrences to his life and his current surroundings. Even if they did appear, then he was too busy to give them half of his time.

Strange texts began to make sense after at least three hours of scrambling letters on a separate sheet of parchment. His quill moved with great haste, filling up blank spot after spot. It showcased how many years of practice he had been gifted and how much of it came from his birth before he and his sister parted ways. All of it made him more powerful, prideful and that feeling carried him through line after line, sketch after sketch and page after page as he scribbled and deciphered whatever clues there happened to be. Enki doubted he would be able to read the first page within a week but perhaps in the first few months.

More hours passed. The sun's radiant shine climbed through the windows and there were birds outside. More people walked in the streets, chatting idly and avoiding the plague altogether with hopes and prayers to Alll-mer. The library became busy and then emptied out again and again, showcasing the times of day people came by both during or after work and lunch. 

He did not raise his head until there was a gentle tap on his shoulder and he almost barked at whoever it was. His hand seized on his quill and his eyes, the color of thunderous stormclouds, snapped to a young woman who had been managing the books all day.

"Sir? It's nearly dark."

"What?" The first time he had spoken in eons. His mouth was dry, his lips were cracked and he felt, suddenly, light headed. 

Enki's head snapped up. The light that was once in the windows was nearly gone. Street lights, candles and torches had begun lighting the streets of dirt and cobble. There were very few passing through the streets now and he strained so hard to see if he was hallucinating that he almost found himself leaning out of his chair. 

How had so much time passed?

"I..." What could he say? 

He started by setting the nearly snapped quill by the emptying inkwell and leaning back slowly into his chair. "I suppose it is..." he muttered. "Is there any way, by chance, that you could hold onto these books for me tomorrow?"

The necromancer looked at her again. She was frail, if not sickly, with honey hair that reached her waist and bright, doe-ish brown eyes. A small line of freckles kissed the bridge of her nose to her cheekbones and he could see bruising on her temples. He had no right to ask but he had an idea as to why _she_ was there so late. 

"Of course, sir. My I take your name? I can keep these behind the desk to ensure it stays safe. As...well as your notes." He didn't need to look at her to know she was paying attention to his scribbles on the paper. It took up both sides.

"Enki," he stated, beginning to stand up and compile the books together into a stack. "I will be back here by morning."

"Did you find something you liked, sir?"

He raised a thin eyebrow towards her as he let the books lean on his chest. "Is that a question I need to answer?"

The frail woman winced and then collected the books from him in silence to hide them away from other eyes. She didn't speak to him again. 

He walked outside just in time to feel another slight drizzle of rain. He hoped, briefly, that it would wash away the victims of the plague and the plague itself. Some were already being washed towards the drain system, usually the lightweights like children, elderly and cats and dogs.*

There were no stars tonight because of that. The moon was swallowed up by the rain clouds, forcing everyone walking home to rely on the hazy street lamps. It was just enough to see the main roadway but any alleyways or off-beaten paths were unable to be properly seen through. The darkness was impenetrable. Even if the man used pyromancy in these places-

No, no. It wasn't back there. These weren't dangerous.

Enki shook his head, reminding himself that these spaces were not of the dungeon. He could burn these spots to the ground should he even remotely sneeze hard enough for an accident. It was dark, it was dangerous but it was able to be lit up and freed from any entity's that lived there.

He carried on, feeling weak in the knees. There was a new ringing in his ears, a dragging sensation that started in his chest then made its way up to his head like a congestion. The street lights couldn't light up the dark spots in front of his eyes as his vision turned hazy, forcing him to lean on the nearest wall. 

Nausea claimed him and he wretched, dry heaving with nothing in his stomach but acid his body formulated naturally. It stung his nostrils and burned his chewed, dry lips. Visions of the Old Ones swarmed his head and he could feel their call running down his spine. It was so cold and hot all at once, giving him chills as he struggled to breathe and see right. The rain was nothing on his skin. He couldn't feel the cold temperature of it anymore as his body suddenly became numb and he could no longer stand.

There was a distance crack as he fell to the ground, darkness taking his body that was beginning to shut down.

* * *

How long had he been out? How long had his eyes been shut?

Enki gasped and used his hands to search along the ground, feeling for the cobblestone beneath his gloves. He lost sight again as voices drummed in his head, as hard as a rock to the base of the skull. 

Visions passed. There was gore against his face, trickling down his neck. It was life blood and not his own. Organs were distributed all across the room, lazily strewn to show that the life force of the world was there and not as nature. There were pieces of scalp stuck to the wall in fun and a merging pile of non-breathing mounds of flesh that sat in each corner of the sacrificial room. He could feel all of it crawling across his skin. His legs- where were his legs? Had it been taken? They had used a bonesaw, cutting it straight through bone to save them all from infection. But that was the problem.

_Unto me... _It called and he felt his eyes roll into the back of his skull. He couldn't see. _Renewal the planet under me. _

Sacrifice. That's all it was. A sacrifice that would just want more. He knew this well as he could feel boils crawling under his skin.

_Defy and run. Look back and plead. _The throbbing got worse and more intense. He couldn't feel the ground anymore.

_We will wait at the gates that yawn with iron._

He wanted to scream as the portcullis of the dungeons entry way appeared. There was nothing in his throat but blood. Yet all he wanted to do was scream as the dungeons and the Old Ones called to him.

They wanted him back.

But he was too afraid to go back.

* * *

* Where the metaphor "raining cats and dogs" came from. When it heavily stormed, corpses of strays would wash down the streets.


	3. Chapter 3

"Raining again?" Celeste asked, watching her beloved stare out the dreary window.

Cahara rested up against the chilled, stone wall, dark eyes scanning the watery alleys and streets with thoughts rumbling through his mind. He almost didn't look up from the spot when Celeste spoke to him, no doubt worried about his mental state ever since he came home with new scars and dark bags under his eyes.

Eventually, he did, casting a smile that only widened when he saw she was lightly dressed in a thin, warm robe. "Yeah. But we don't have anything to worry about, right?" He opened up his arms and she quickly fond solace in sitting on his lap, thin fingers tracing over one of the many scars he had come back with on his chest. The mercenary let her adjust before he felt soft, butterfly kisses laying along his cheek and neck. Honestly, he probably could have fallen asleep right there with how warm she was but he shrugged it off to settle a hand on her swollen belly.

"Well, let's talk about our little tyke here," he said. "How's he doing?"

He was rewarded with a smile as she playfully pushed his sternum. "We don't even know if it's a he."

"He's certainly not an it."

She rolled her eyes and pinched his left nipple, causing him to make some sort of noise and lean back against the wall. "Ow! Hey! Off the goods!"

It was a delight, for him, to hear her laugh so brightly. It was a soft noise but it was good to see her smile after a long rest and some new, hot food on the table before winter settled in. Her hair was no longer thinning out at the top of her head, her eyes were brighter than when he had first come back home and her smile could kill a man. Specifically him.

"But," she began, "they're doing fine. Felt some kicking earlier but nothing bad. I visited the midwife and she says they'll be due in about a month or so."

Cahara nodded and gently squeezed her into a soft hug. "Good. Good."

Several hours passed afterwards and her job was set back in motion, despite the baby coming ahead. She continued to try to put him at ease, saying that men were extremely gentle with her, as though they wanted to make sure she and the baby had a very easy birth. Cahara was grateful but he would be damned if he heard about some sort of problem with an asshole that wanted nothing more than to get his rocks off. He was certain he would have found the man and killed him. Not like he didn't do that already and he had had practice down in those damned dungeons that plagued him every single night.

Cahara eventually left the brothel, having no need to stay in it for any longer. If he really needed coin, he'd get it later. Lucky for him, however, despite the fact he never was able to save Le'garde from his immanent demise, those who had hired him still gave him half of the silver he had been seeking for. Not only that, but there had been quite a bit in the damn dungeons. He had moved all of what he had scavenged from the depths of the dungeons into savings. It worked pretty damn well.

He trekked through the rainy day, stepping over thick branches and bundles of leaves to get to where he was going. A part of him could distinctly smell iron but he wondered if that was just his brain talking nonsense. Regardless, it wasn't any of his business and he continued on until he reached two, quaint homes.

The last occupants of both houses had fallen under the spell of the plague. Much of the town was left abandoned and motes of bodies were made all around the kingdom and towns in itself of Rondon. Some bodies finally faded after giving off an awful smell for days on end and the rain was keeping them from finally disappearing into the depths of death. Many homeless and ill were claimed and all but the rich were abandoned in dug-out ditches. 

Cahara sighed and reached up with one hand to knock on one wooden door. There was a candle that was lit, flickering like a lonely soul and a shadow bypassed it eventually. It was only for a moment but it was enough for the thief to know that he was going to at least be greeted and not be forced to wait in this rain.

The doorknob turned and the door opened. Equally, if not more wet from the downpour was Ragnvaldr, a companion Cahara had come across in the dungeons of Rondon. There was a towel hanging around his shoulders, catching every drip from his long hair and he only wore a pelt around his waist that reached his knees. From within there came the smell of cooked meat, no doubt well-fed and seasoned well with how often they had stripped barrels and boxes for any kind of food. With the help of a recipe book, all four of them had been able to manage some kind of hunger stability and it tasted not half bad.

Cahara caught himself nearly drooling when the outlander opened the door for him, moving behind the wood partially to let Cahara in. He nodded slightly in thanks and stepped inside, removing his wet cloak hood and then dropping his shoulders to let the fabric fall around his elbows. Ragnvaldr spoke to him as the door was shut and the garment was hung up properly. 

"Have you come to chat?" he rumbled, his voice swelling with a long ache of inner turmoil and insomnia. The outlander stalked past him with slow, almost haunting steps towards the nearby kitchen, where the stove burned brightly.

"Kind of. I just wanted to check in on you."

Ragnvaldr hummed before tending to the kitchen. His movements were sturdy but they lacked vigor and vitae. He had lost a part of himself somewhere, most likely to thought, as though in a trance that was full of unbridled exhaustion and some rage that boiled beneath that hardened exterior. Cahara felt kind of bad for the man who had lost just about everything in those dungeons, just like his current neighbor. 

The room became silent, but not uncomfortably so. There was a sizzle in a hanging pot in the depths of the oven and the rain bounced off the rooftops in a steady thrum that could lull someone into sleep. He could hear the man hum, utensils clinking and there was the softest noise of fabric on fabric as the thief sat down on the cushioned chair closer to the kitchen and only a little further away from a thin couch near the front door. Needless to say, the interior of the place wasn't empty and lonely, but rather still and quiet.

"So, uh," he began, wanting to fill the silence up more, "how have you been fairing?"

Ragnvaldr didn't fill that void of an answer for an extended period of time. Only when Cahara began to bounce his leg and feel a cold chill of anxiety run across the back of his neck did the outlander finally speak. A bowl of hot soup was placed in front of him, clearly carrying lamb meat, liver and lots of vegetables in the broth.

"Poorly, though I could be worse. Regardless," Ragnvaldr fell into the couch with a great thud, "I suffer no matter the hour."

Cahara, a piece of meat already halfway between his lips, had to stop for a moment to chew properly and swallow before he spoke his mind. "Well, uh... We all kind of do." He can see the hardened eye even when he was looking at his soup pooling in his spoon. "We do need you though. Your company, your figure and you as a whole."

He glanced up, spoon rising to his mouth. Ragnvaldr wasn't even looking at him. His eyes were on the windows, glazed over in clear thought and nightmarish ideals. 

The viking had come away from the dungeons hardly happy. If at all. Le'garde had perished in the dungeons and not by his hand. His village was lost to the world and his entire family was slain for having the artifact that the Captain had wanted so desperately. Ragnvaldr had wanted to stay behind in the dungeons of Fear & Hunger, longing to rot in eternity and weigh the hearts of others by the amount of despair that they had fought through. He, who was the upcoming Tormented One, forced himself into silence in fear of howling with splitting rage. 

Despite it all, D'arce had been the one to confront him about running away from the damned place. She, a Knight of the Midnight Sun, had held onto Ragnvaldr's hands to confront him that he was stronger than anyone else in that party. She had spoken and confessed with great, blue tears that she cherished the viking's life and wanted him to live outside with air and not in the place for the Gods. 

Cahara was certain that if D'arce Cataliss hadn't intervened, both Enki and Ragnvaldr would be gods of that decrepit, forgotten place. Even Cahara. And now she lived next door. He wondered how she was doing.

"Hey. Should we go see D'arce?" 

Ragnvaldr answered after a moment of depraved silence, "I am certain she is busy. She is a knight, after all." 

Cahara shook his head, a mouthful of soup going down his throat. "Was. Her captain is going, so the knights have long since dispersed."

"Then she will be given rights as a Knight of Rondon."

"No. It... doesn't work like that."

Finally, the viking turned his head towards his companion, lips set in a thin line. "What?"

Cahara nodded. "She's just stuck right now. No job. No person to follow. So... I think we should check in on her."

Ragnvaldr looked out the window again, his fingers rubbing together in front of his chin. It was the only thing that showed his anxiety and worry; little things like the way he shifted his weight, rubbed his fingers or picked at the slight oncomings of a beard on his chin always let the mercenary know that the man was definitely thinking.

Finally, the man nodded and they both moved outside to travel just next door.

Cahara knocked first with chilled fingers while the outlander loomed behind him, standing at a at a ungodly 5'11 or even higher. He barely seemed susceptible to the cold, despite his chest being bear and open to the rainwater despite his cleaned furs.

The woman of 5'1 opened the door. Cahara could already see that the deep bags beneath her eyes, having spawned in the stress of enduring the dungeons, had lightened up considerably. She must have slept hard without knowing she needed it. Upon seeing them both, she gave a tiny smile that brightened her face and made Cahara's heart swell.

"Hi, you two," she said, stepping aside to let them in. "Where's Enki?"

Cahara shrugged as he ran his hands through his damp hair. "Dunno, dollface. Haven't seen the bastard. Probably has been hiding in his cabin in the woods."

The door was shut and bolted. Immediately there was a difference between Ragnvaldr's place and D'arce's. The sweet smell of drying herbs and baked bread made his nose nearly twitch. There was also a tiny embroidery project sitting on her couch, next to a place where a candle could be lit. The place was tidy, neat and clearly had been scrubbed down to avoid dirt, rats and disease. It was probably also something that kept her busy.

Ragnvaldr was staring at her and it took Cahara a moment to realize why.

"Dollface, I didn't know you could look good in dresses!"

Standing at the cuttingboard, she turned her head over her shoulder, an eyebrow raised. Fitting her bodice was a deep blue gown, having been made specifically to fit her as it shaped her body well and was tied at the waist, the back and the arms. The best part, he believed, was that not only could she fit into it but she still stood like a solider. Her back was straight, her arms weren't entirely at her sides so she could hold a weapon and she seemed very keen on anything in the area. Like the way they were staring. Her ears began to turn pink.

"Of course I can fit into a dress!" she snapped. "I'm a lady. Wearing this kind of thing is natural."

Cahara set his hands on his hips, a smile tugging at his mouth. She seemed to know it, too.

"Cahara, if I turn around right now and see that stupid smug smile on your face, I'm going to wipe it off myself with this bread knife."

Ragnvaldr watched it fall immediately and the slightest smile appeared on his own face. Seeing the thief shut up under the woman's sharp words and wit was always a treat and, in reality, the man didn't seem to mind. He simply accepted it and moved on.

The two were presented with thick slices of homemade bread. Cahara had no trouble in stuffing his slice into his mouth, even while conversation commenced. 

Things had been rough. Despite the dungeons being behind them, they were still a lingering thought. Each one of them suffered from nightmares, insomnia or suicidal thoughts. D'arce cried herself to sleep frequently, if not twice a night, and sometimes regretted getting up in the mornings. Ragnvaldr had hardly slept at all and lost himself to nothingness. He simply stared at a spot and let his body sit in a trancelike state, where even talking to him barely roused his thoughts back into his own form. And, for once, Cahara spoke with extreme seriousness as he spoke on what was keeping him up at the all hours of the night. It wasn't the dungeons per se, but rather something that was seen in the dungeons in many forms.

"It's not really something that gets to me," he said, running his hands together and feeling bread crumbs fall onto the wood. "But... It'll be once Celeste gives birth." His hands ran over his face, thinking of both her and the newborn. 

D'arce caught on quick, a hand coming up to her mouth. "You mean Pocketcat."

Cahara nodded. "I don't know what I'll do when that bastard tries to come around. All I can know is that cats hate rain, but..."

"Pocketcat comes out during the rain, when the Moon Trickster cannot see," Ragnvaldr hummed, watching Cahara nod again and run his hands through his hair, as though trying to lower his anxiety levels. It was, of course, in vain as he looked back up, heaving a sigh that was fit for a man who had decided that the end of the world was on his shoulders. 

D'arce's lips pinched before she leaned forward, setting her knees on her elbows. "Avoid the rain and the night, then. At least if you're with the child. Or if the child is accompanying you."

"When is she expecting?" 

Cahara looked up at Ragnvaldr, lips dry. "Within the next month or so."

The outlander's eyes seemed to shine for a moment, growing soft for the first time. Cahara had a distinct feeling as to why. It had to do something with the lost village of Oldegård, where the viking had lost all of his people, all of his family and his relationships. The thief knew that the man once had a wife at some point, or at least a child that he had cared for by the time he had reached the age 25. And now approaching his early 30's, Ragnvaldr was alone entirely, with no child to have his legacy and no wife to love during the coldest nights.

He looked away by putting his face in his hands.

The silence carried on only for a moment, soon broken by an anxious D'arce. "Come on, I have a little more bread left. Maybe we will visit Enki and see if he needs any."

"Aww, I don't wanna walk in this rain again," Cahara replied, lightening up as though someone had just presented him with candy. He had to remain positive.

"Well, maybe we can wait a bit?"

And wait they did, watching the rainy hours roll by. In the midst of it, they shared light-hearted stories. D'arce explained her life while training for the role of a knight and Cahara happily interjected that his childhood was, essentially, bullshit. He didn't mind though, as he was happier than he had ever had been. Ragnvaldr was still coping but he found a great interest in hunting during the morning hours. He took to reading some books and writing in a personal diary to convey his feelings and thoughts. He wrote down whatever on his chest if he wasn't hunting for meat and furs for the city.

Nighttime came around and Cahara left to go back to Celeste, wanting to take care of her. He knew she would need it the faster her time approached for giving birth and not being with her now made him anxious. The other two bid him goodbye and he was on his way, retrieving his coat from Ragnvaldr's home. 

Hood up and shoulders covered, the man continued on the lonely, flooded road with his head down and eyes searching the candles in the glass-encased posts. They barely cut through the dreary night. It was his only lifeline in carrying light across the plague-infested place to where he could see and steadily walk. 

A strangled gurgle made him nearly jump out of his skin. For a moment, his mind traveled back into the past, where gore filled his nose and he could barely see anything else among the streets of Ma'havre except death and shadows that did nothing but sweep through them like an icy freeze. 

Cahara took in a deep breath, trying to calm himself as he glanced down an unlit alleyway. It was probably just the sewers starting to flood up and there were air bubbles surfacing. The stench of blood wasn't there, it was all in his head and the entire experience was behind him.

But it wasn't.

There was a smell of iron in the air that made him nearly flinch as soon as he inhaled again. The gurgle happened again and Cahara slowly shifted through the water, adjusting to the lack of light slowly. 

The alleyway held only one thing in the middle of it. A passed out occupant, lying face down and choking on the flooded water. 

With extreme care, for the boy had been stabbed before with a fake scenario like this in the past, he used his foot to turn the person over by their shoulder, at least pulling them out of the water.

Despite the dark, he nearly reeled back, able to see the familiar face that was nearly so gaunt that he was a skeleton and his lips were nearly blue from the cold. Without a second thought the thief turned heel and sprinted through the streets, water slapping at his heels as he nearly tore through D'arce's door, hoping to find the two of them still there. They were, talking idly as Cahara stood at the unlocked door, his hood blown back by wind and his chest already heaving from his lack of breath.

"We need a _doctor_. Or a place we can use," he gasped. "I need your help." Ragnvaldr stood and Cahara instinctively took back a step. "It's Enki. He's hurt."

And then he ran, immediately being pursued by two different pairs of footsteps. The only reason he stared in front of the outlander was because of his lithe legs, but otherwise? The other had much more speed on him and D'arce was not far behind now that she no longer needed to run in her armor. She had her skirts picked up and her muscled legs were carrying her just behind both men, who wheeled around the corner.

Familiar, godawful yellow eyes looked up, a hand inches away from the gasping man's face. Before Cahara could even reach for a weapon, a thin dagger swept right by them, embedding itself into the shoulder of the thin, ugly cat. Pocketcat stretched back, cupping his shoulder before fading into the darkness as though he was a piece of chocolate left out in the sun. He disappeared in a heartbeat, with nary a trace to follow. It left them, the four, alone.

Ragnvaldr moved towards the injured, delirious priest while Cahara glanced sharply to D'arce, face showing extreme surprise with his brows furrowed. Judging by her stance and the way she hiked up her skirts to show her bare ankles, it was clear she had thrown the knife with the precision of Ragnvaldr's arrows. She looked to him and dropped her dress, a smile placing itself on her face.

"Yes?"

Cahara shook his head, grinning. "Didn't know you were armed to the bone, dollface."

She shrugged. "Oh, you know, a lady's got to be prepared."

He nudged her shoulder enthusiastically as Ragnvaldr hurried in front of them both towards his home, the dark priest in his arms and gasping for air, as though he was being choked.

Surely everything would fix itself once the man was in a proper place and not a back alleyway.

Right?

But judging by the scratched open scars on his hands, something had gone wrong. Really, really wrong.


	4. Chapter 4

"Don't need a hand keeping an eye on our dark priest, dollface?"

"We might need a hand in keeping an eye on you and your back alleyway shenanigans instead, Cahara." 

D'arce turned over her shoulder to look towards the thief. There was a slight smile on her small lips as her strong hands wrung out an older rag, her eyes watching the thief's face. He pursed his lips and glanced to the side as though he was sheepishly apologetic. She knew better, though. That man was the definition of a trickster child. He knew that he wasn't supposed to touch the oven but he sure as hell did it anyway if there were some warm cookies on the stovetop.

"Listen," he began as she turned back to the resting dark priest, "I'll keep to my shenanigans, you keep to your church."

She rolled her eyes. 

Calloused yet small fingers brushed through the growing bangs of Enki. He certainly had a fever and the very thought of bringing him up to a physician made her stomach curl. He was beginning to look so sick and the idea that he would have to be witnessed by the Church for all of his sins made her uneasy. Though she wanted him to also be in the path of Alll-mer, she didn't want to drag him into the beliefs that he had so astutely wrinkled his nose at. Though he had clearly believed in Alll-mer back within the dungeons, he had prayed to Gro-goroth for growth, abundance and, ultimately, destruction.

As much as he scared her with his sharp eyes and his growling voice, the man was as thin as a rail. He had been physically weak for so long, even unable to hold her sword properly when she had dropped it out of being poisoned. This sickness would likely ruin him into near death, as though he hadn't already. 

The heavy steps of Ragnvaldr brought her out of her worried haze for a moment. She glanced up to see a wooden bowl of water balanced perfectly in his palm and his green eyes were quite full of life. Was it worry? Hope? Had he just been dragged out of his depressed state of mind? She wasn't sure but she was certainly glad there was no spit-fire venom that reigned over the color.

"Here. Help him drink. I will treat his hands."

She paused after taking the bowl of rain water. 

"Do you think we should take him to a doctor?" she asked, watching him kneel beside her. She received a snort from both men in the room that stoked naive shame in her chest. It revealed itself by turning her cheeks red.

"Doctors don't do anything, dollface," Cahara said, his voice and face completely dismissive and even bitter. "Unless you've got money. The heavier the bag, the more likely they'll help. You saw the state of Rondon before, right? Where plague doctors just sat around, wagging their fingers going "You did this!" and all that." He played out the finger-wag and obnoxiously changed his voice into that of a nasalized one. It would have made her laugh if it hadn't been the annoyance on his face, which disappeared when he realized his sour mood. "Anyway, we shouldn't worry too much unless he starts getting boils and rashes, right?"

Ragnvaldr said nothing as he simply tore a clean bedsheet to strips, making cotton scraps. D'arce didn't mind, considering she was in the process of making another one already. Though she had wanted to give it to someone else who needed it, she supposed this was just what had to happen. They had a need for bandages and, maybe, she would buy some later.

There was a precision in the way Ragnvaldr worked. It was the same meticulous care that he sought to put into his bowman work, where he had to string a bow in less than a second and be prepared to aim. Though this was much more gentle it was always interesting to watch it unfold in a man that was labeled as a barbarian. 

She looked away to set the cool rag on Enki's forehead, making sure his chest was rising and falling through his robes. Even from here, she could see that his shoulders and chest were thin enough to show off his bones. This meant that he had neglected eating anything and the dark circles beneath his eyes meant lack of sleep. Despite how independent he had showed himself to be, Enki had been fairing the worst of all out of them. Not necessarily mentally, as far as she knew, but physically, yes. 

Suddenly, Ragnvaldr was dragged the collar of Enki's robes down.

"Find somethin'?" Cahara asked, stepping forward a bit. D'arce glanced towards Enki's hands, looking at the delicate bandaging and even the knots to keep it all together. He had done it so fast.

"He has not eaten in several days, at the very least. Or he has refused food. No wonder he is more sickly than before."

D'arce moved to her knees and delicately poured water from the bowl into his slightly parted lips. Her flush became apparent whenever Ragnvaldr reached forward and opened up the priest's jaw for her, seeing as she hadn't been sure to do it in the first place. She also partially expected exasperation to come from the outlander but, instead, she received a soft smile of understanding.

An hour passed and food had been passed around. Cahara left for home once again on a full stomach and Ragnvaldr sat up with the ex-knight, who was staring out the window. Her knees were pulled up to her chest and she was softly sipping on a bowl of soup. The outlander had his eyes on the exhausted dark priest, his eyes clouded over with thought as to what could have possibly happened between him and the Pocket Cat that had slipped, once again, back into Rondon for the consumption of children. 

"Ragnvaldr." He lifted his head towards her and she could see his expression in the reflection of the window. "Is there anything we can do? Anything at all?"

He raised an eyebrow, asking her silently to further her question.

"I mean..." She sighed and ran her fingers through her growing bangs. "I wish I wasn't stuck inside with my embroidery. I wish I was out looking for food, for cures and to help others. I love making dresses, I love sewing and I love to cook. Yet I am... I need to do something." Her hand pulled back and she thunked it back against the window, watching his expression soften into one that she had seen only once before.

Ragnvaldr spoke slowly, letting her catch every word. She didn't need to turn her head to hear him properly. 

"It was once your duty to guard a man and your comrades with your life," he said. "I understand that feeling. To feel like there has been something engraved in you that longs for freeing citizens, finding cures and bringing peace to lands." Ragnvaldr paused for a moment, a thick breath coming through his lips. D'arce could already tell that he was trying to not think about his past. 

"D'arce?" 

She finally looked up, seeing his soulful eyes on her own. It almost took the breath out of her lungs but she still listened as he spoke again.

"Tomorrow, would you like to hunt for morning food?" He tapped a finger on his opposite hand. "Berries, herbs, meat or other-" he didn't elaborate as he eventually shrugged his shoulders. 

The image of going out hunting on horseback for big game wasn't exactly all that appealing to the swordswoman but it also sounded like it was at least a stroll through an area that would bring life to her lungs. The idea of just a stroll through the woods near the raised walls of Rondon made her eyes glitter with interest and an excitement that made Ragnvaldr softly smile for the first time in a long, long while. For a single second, for a stopped moment in time, Knight of the Midnight Sun and Outlander Viking were nothing more than just two friends once more. 

"I would love to, Ragnvaldr," she said, a little breathless as her childish mind ravaged the thought of riding at a gallop through sunny fields and between woodland clearings.

The redheaded man gave a nod and adjusted himself in his seat, soon standing up. 

"I will return to my cottage. Should you need me, do not hesitate to knock on my door." 

D'arce nodded and set the soup bowl down on the coffee table before standing to open the door for him. "Do you need any extra blankets, Ragnvaldr?" She was worried that he didn't wear much. He loved his furs and rarely ever changed out of them unless they were washed or in need of repairs. It reminded him of home. "I know you have extra tunics and pants but-"

The man raised a hand to stop her words and shook his head. "Do not worry about it. If I need help then I will let you know."

"Promise?"

Ragnvaldr nodded, tucked his damp furs around him and walked outside into the remaining nightly hours to go home. D'arce shut the door behind him, locked it well and then felt the night go quiet. The rain trickled still, the smell of soup warmed her heart but there was something that she really didn't feel happy about. Was she lonely, perhaps?

She glanced to the injured and sleeping priest. The dark circles under his eyes were prominent, almost resembling bruising. His hands were now bandaged well and there was still two bowls of water right next to him on the bedside table; one for drinking, one for soaking the cloth on his forehead. It would need to be adjusted soon and she wondered if she could manage well without the assistance of a man who had just left the grounds of her home.

D'arce bit her lower lip and sat down to finish the last of her stew, absentmindedly watching the dreary rainfall that she was beginning to get sick of. Usually she didn't mind rain, fog nor mist, but now it was beginning to be too much in the same way someone could have too much sunlight. Like a plant, she needed less of the flooding rainfall and more of a soft ray of sunshine. 

The bowl was eventually empty and the remaining food was kept warm on the stovetop, covered with thick cloth to keep bugs out. Afterwards, the kitchen was swept, the windows quickly washed from the inside and then she was back by Enki's side, a strange fatigue overcoming her. It didn't take her long to figure out it was worry as she wrung out the rag in the bowl and gently tucked it under his bangs, pressing it against his warm forehead comfortably before returning to the nightstand to grab for the second bowl.

It was simple clockwork like this for another hour. Making sure that he had enough water in his body to keep him from basically fading into a pile of dust. It was a little difficult at first because she didn't want to drown him but, eventually, she was able to tip his head up and give it to him with care. His body also happened to react to it naturally and she wondered if it was natural, instinctual or learned. Regardless, he was able to drink and it put several fears of her to the side. It didn't mean that she would sleep worryfree, however, not after witnessing the lurking Pocketcat with his hand constantly in his pocket.

The thought made her shudder and she tucked the blankets a bit more around Enki. Once finished, she sighed and stood up, finally running her fingers through her hair and along the back of her neck. 

Slender fingers brushed over the top of her reading book and propped it open up in her hands, already reading where she had left off since her last night of disappearing into a mental, fantasy world. It helped her sleep, especially once her candle was beginning to wear down into a waxy cage. 

She dressed for bed in a simple nightgown and folded her clothing on the nearby chest that all of her clothes were put in. It kept everything simple and clean, especially if her roof ever started leaking. So far, she was in the clear with that.

D'arce didn't fall asleep until 2am. Her worry only finally fell away when she finally stopped getting distracted by the traumas of the night and the past. Her candle was halfway melted by the time she finally set the book down and blew out the candle, letting sleep eat away at her until she was sleeping past 6 in the morning.

* * *

"You rescued a what?"

"A rouncey!" D'arce chirped, patting the tired mare's neck with a gloved hand. "She's an old Fjord breed. The original owner was selling her because she was getting too weak to uphold feed for her. So I took her!" The elderly mare snorted softly and set her tender muzzle into the woman's hands, searching for food with a curious nibble. 

Ragnvaldr shook his head with a mystified look. "A horse, D'arce? We won't need a horse for the outside forests. And she is too small to be a proper riding horse."

The young woman gave an indignant huff before she began to saddle up the old girl. 

"You don't even have a proper stable for her."

At this, D'arce paused, pinching her lips slowly in realization before she sheepishly looked to the outlander. "Well... I... I just wanted to do something good for her."

Despite his exasperation Ragnvaldr gave a low laugh in his chest, unable to help himself as he ran his fingers through his hair. Pushing his tresses out of the way, he spoke with a faint smile on his face. It reached his eyes a little.

"Fine, fine. But _I _am walking. Later on, perhaps I can make her something in my house." 

D'arce blinked and raised an eyebrow as she propped the saddle up on the small horse's back. "What do you mean?"

"I rarely use my house for anything inside. Cooking, yes, tanning leather, no." He shook his head, shifting his weight and letting his bow clink against his quiver on his back. "I will buy straw if you buy a water barrel and feeding bucket for her." Not only that, but he wondered if D'arce took into consideration about the cost of any medicines for the old mare. It was likely she wouldn't even live six years after the excited woman had bought her.

D'arce seemed to get the implications and had her jaw drop a little. Ragnvaldr could see the anxious bite marks on her lower lip from even at a four feet distance. "That's so kind of you, Ragnvaldr. But that means that you would be doing... doing everything for me. May I be the one to comb through the stall and clean out her messes?"

"If you deem it fit, yes. I will be leaving before dawn to hunt for night animals. Deer, foxes and maybe wolves." D'arce shuddered at the images of the dungeons flashing behind her eyelids. "That is a good time for you to leave your home and get to mine to tend to both the makeshift stall and Enki."

The ex-knight gave a short nod, worry beginning to build in her gut. 

"Well," Ragnvaldr motioned for her to hurry, "come on now. Saddle her and we ride before the sun is highest."

It took thirty minutes before they could leave properly. The old mare had no temper but D'arce also wasn't used to such a short ride, much less in skirts. It was comical. She clearly desired to ride like any other knight, with their legs in each stirrup properly and reins held comfortable in her hands. Despite her skirts, she didn't ride with one leg over the other on one side. Ragnvaldr really couldn't blame her. Riding well meant riding with both feet in the stirrups, butt in the saddle until trot and back solid.

Celeste took to watching over Enki despite her very pregnant belly. Cahara was at work and the woman was much too large to carry on with anything sexually related. Ragnvaldr was certain she would give birth to twins with how far her belly stretched and dried out from so much pressure and pull. 

The two were certain she was comfortable with blankets, pillows and warm soup before they disappeared into the faded brown woodlands. 

An hour passed and two pieces of meat were collected. Two rabbits sat in his belt after he had made D'arce and the horse stop, his eyes and ears keen on the grey that blended in well with the shadows of the dense forests. Regardless, he aimed once, steadied and shot the rabbit through the skull in a clean hit. He did this twice with a gaze as keen as a killer's.

D'arce thought of the outlander like a wolf. Everything stopped when food was on the line and the world didn't matter when his arrow was knocked and his eyes steadier than a ritual drum. 

At one point, he let one rabbit go. The woman gave him a questioning look and he shook his head.

"Pregnant," he said. "Cannot kill the mother, or there will be no future livestock."

How did he know?

Another thirty minutes passed and they stopped for water, letting the mare drink her share by a small creek. 

"She is doing well," the outlander hummed, running a hand over the long neck of the rouncey horse. The horse didn't stir but her ears certainly flicked back to his voice. "I am impressed by her stamina and wellbeing." And from around the other side, he could see D'arce puff up like a happy peacock. 

"I told you!" she beamed, putting her face into the combed mane of her newfound mount. 

Ragnvaldr shook his head and looked ahead, wondering if there was a pool of water he could fish in. So far, they had two rabbits. They weren't great but not getting them at all would've been even worse. If they could find something even better, it would be a goldmine, especially for the rest of the townsfolk that remained after the plague had rid Europe of so many. 

As the outlander sat by the resting mare, who grazed at the cool moss on the forest floor, he watched the young woman picked at flowers. She inspected the leaves, the buds and the thorns, categorizing them as carefully as possible. She did the same thing for moss, potential mushrooms and other leaves. She was focused entirely on that and it let the outlander receive a certain peace that he would have enjoyed back within those awful dungeons. 

"Should we take those to an herbalist?" he asked when she returned.

"No doubt about it," she replied, sitting next to him despite the damp leaves. "I can't categorize them all but, look, look!" She opened the folds of her dress carefully, revealing her apron that was filled with wild blackberries. When did she pick those? 

He picked one up carefully and turned it over between two fingers. "When did you pick these?"

"Just now! I know you were watching!" She raised an eyebrow to show her confusion and he simply put it back.

"Daydreaming."

"Ohh, really now?" Her eyebrow raised up a little higher, a smile pulling at her lips. Ragnvaldr rolled his eyes and gently pushed her shoulder in play.

"Do not think it was about you."

D'arce shook her head. "I wasn't. I just figured you might be thinking of another lady."

He snorted. "Hardly. Come on, let's keep going."

Another hour passed as D'arce rode the Fjord as steadily as she could. Ragnvaldr eventually held onto her bridle with careful fingers, his other hand tightened around his bow. The rest of the scavenging proved to be fruitful as more berries were picked and an older buck was snagged by one of the outlander's arrows. It took two to bring him down peacefully, the other one having missed its heart by a hair.

D'arce had never seen the outlander steel himself almost more than ever to gather the proper food for hunt and as the buck finally fell, Raganvaldr had loosened every muscle in his body and prayed in thanks for the bountiful hunt. He apologized to the dead animal for making it suffer due to his own miscalculations. 

The deer was carried on the saddle and the two were left to walk with the mare carrying a carcass of meat on its back.

"Ragnvaldr?"

"Hm?"

D'arce was looking a bit at the ground in thought. "Do you always apologize when you miss like that?"

The man cringed a bit at the word "miss" but brushed it off as best as he could. D'arce didn't mean anything by it. "Only to animals I hunt and humans I put out of their misery. Anything else has reserved no sympathy in my heart." 

They fell silent again and trudged on back home.

* * *

Warm hands folded the cold cloth back over Enki's forehead, clearly unphased by his groaning and dismissal that he needed nothing.

"It's okay," Celeste hummed, brushing his hair back from his face. "You can ask for things. I'm not going to hold it against you."

Tired eyes of grey narrowed despite the clear exhaustion written on his face. Celeste barely seemed bothered as she gently patted his face and then tucked the blankets around his body. 

"How are your hands, Enki?"

He looked her up and down carefully, fingers flexing as his mind trailed back to them. "Cold. Probably because the bandaging-" He stopped as she gently cupped her hands around his, trying to spread the warmth from her body towards his own. A mother's warmth to his own, abandoned body. 

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Trying to warm you up, dear. Do you want any extra blanket?"

He shook his head and his hands away from hers but she snagged on tight. "I don't need your motherly love."

"You don't need it but you're getting it, okay?" Despite his brash tone she was still gentle with him. She still held onto his hands with a firm, motherly affection that made him irritated. Eventually, he relented as she helped him sit up enough to eat. Once he did, she was beginning to sew, humming lullabies from her throat.

Enki didn't understand her passions nor her affection but he couldn't seem to shake her off unless he yelled at her. Even then it felt like he wasn't going to do anything but keep himself bedridden with her anger. 

He watched her fingers work, eyeing the callouses on her fingers from practiced writing and hard work in a possible kitchen or scrubbing floors. He could see the brittleness of her nails but that was likely to be from working while her nails were wet, not from malnutrition. Her hair was also shiny from protein and her lips were full, soft even. She was the exact opposite of himself, who had nearly starved to death and had fainted in front of the Pocketcat from exhaustion.

How fucking embarrassing. The sheer thought of it made his face heat up and he avoided looking at Celeste to make sure she didn't suddenly panic at his reddening face.

After a long moment of silence, the last of the soup being brought down to droplets in his bowl, he spoke again.

"You know I am a dark priest, yes?"

"Mhmmm," she hummed lazily.

"But you're still helping me?"

"I trust you."

The very words hit him in the gut so hard he felt dizzy. 

"I- what?"

She looked up, soulful eyes brimming with different, golden colors in her brown eyes. 

"I trust you! You worked with Cahara and brought him home, after all. You made sure that he made it home after all of this time and..." She sighed, on the verge of tears within seconds. Enki knew that it wasn't just pregnancy that was making her emotional. Cahara coming home back to her, while she was pregnant, and he was safe meant the world to her. He wondered what would've happened to her and the child if Cahara had never made it back.

Celeste sighed, rubbing at her face. "I'm sorry. It's still something I have nightmares about."

Somehow, Enki could relate. 

The sound of horse hooves made Enki glance towards the closest window, curious to see the mount and its rider. Not like he had anything better to do while in bedrest. He was more than surprised when he saw two familiar faces leading a palomino rouncey through the streets that were, pleasantly, no longer being ransacked with rain. Not only that, but there was fresh meat strapped to the straddle and along Ragnvaldr's belt. The rabbits were passed onto D'arce for proper cleaning, skinning and cooking potential. Ragnvaldr took the buck over his shoulder and led the horse to his hut.

When the hell did she get a horse?

"Oh, are they back?" Celeste asked, standing up slowly with one hand on her back and the other setting down the sewing project in her seat. 

"Seems like it," he murmured, watching the door open from across the bedroom.

"Celeste?" D'arce looked immediately to the bedroom and Enki could see the light in her eyes blossom brilliantly. "Enki! You're awake!"

The dark priest sighed and waved her off, not wanting any attention nor bone-crushing heads. "Pay attention to the woman. She needs it right now."

Enki could see D'arce nearly go against his words but she didn't. Not while she had herbs in her apron, berries in her pockets and two dead rabbits in her hands. She gave a quick one-armed hug to the brothel owner and then they shuffled to the kitchen. 

A cold chill, as sharp as dagger, cut through his body as soon as he saw them both disappear. 

He heaved in a sharp breath and clapped a hand over his mouth, receiving cold chills all the way up and down his back. A warning whisper grazed his ears in a tongue he neither knew nor heard but recognized all the same. 

Just before he felt the urge to vomit, it disappeared and warmth returned to his shivering body.

Whatever it was, it was gone but he knew better than to believe that it wouldn't come back. Whatever it was, he wasn't even able to see it.

What was that?


	5. Chapter 5

Something was wrong.

Ever since that night, where pain struck his chest and he felt his teeth singe with a fire that no insult could match- there was something that kept coming back. Something kept combing over his body, raising the hairs on his thin figure and forcing him back into his work. Book after book, he turned the pages from dawn until dusk, no doubt somewhat worrying the knight that was wandering through her home and then, ultimately, leaving for grocery runs and to help Ragnvaldr take care of the mare she had adopted so willingly.

Celeste came and went. He had only asked her once to not bother him and she had understood, waddling back with Cahara to head back to the brothel, where she would eat and sleep for the rest of the day. Sometimes she still took on patrons, but it was rare now. The most she could use was her mouth as most men feared the idea of harming the child and killing her with it.

Who knew savages could also open up their eyes and minds to the potential of both the woman _and _the soon-to-be infant?

Regardless, Enki flipped through his pages and didn't stand up properly once from the bed unless it was to remove liquid waste or because he was persuaded by D'arce to actually move. Other than that? He was perched in her bed, keeping it warm as he used a finger to light a candle and kept going.

Ragnvaldr entered the room and he hadn't even noticed until the outlander knocked on the wooden doorframe.

"Dark priest."

Grey eyes looked up, sharp as a knife at the bright green eyes of the barbarian. The green hue was soft, rather sympathetic but also empty of an emotion that had long since been skinned from his mind and soul. In a way, Ragnvaldr knew the term "heartless." 

When Enki refused to answer, the muscled man walked forward, presenting himself comfortably. "You have been reading all day. Though knowledge may be power, you seem perturbed ever since you had awoken."

The blond stared at the other for a long, tense moment before he sighed and thumbed over the pages. "There is something wrong. Even if you don't believe me, I'm going to try and get to the bottom of this feeling." He shook his head, finally leaning his head back and feeling an ache in the base of his cervical vertebrae. He cringed but kept speaking. "It did not waken me from my unconscious state. Nor was it there when you and the girl returned." He looked forward again, this time at the wall that displayed the shadows from the candle he had recently lit.

Silence filled the room but only for a moment. "It is one of the women that carries something."

Ragnvaldr swiftly tensed. His fists tightened and his shoulders broadened. 

"Is it on the children? Those soon to be born?"

Children? Was it not just one child?

Enki turned to look at the red head. "There is more than one in the belly?"

Ragnvaldr sighed, though it didn't seem like he was exasperated. "She carries twins. Celeste. The way her stomach bulges, it is not one child. Though she is short, she is not entirely stocky. Twins." His answer made sense, but he wasn't through with his own questions. "But are they infected? Cursed?"

Enki shook his head but bit the tip of his thumb all the same. "It is not _them. _It is, rather, the women. I am sure of it."

"What did you sense?"

The outlander moved to the edge of the bed, sitting on it. Enki made room for the other unconsciously before beginning to speak his mind.

"Pain. Sharp pain. I don't know what it is, but..." The book closed finally and his bandaged hands rubbed at his face. "It is not within the power of Gro-goroth. It is a familiar presence but, yet, not a god's. That is all I can say." His knobby hands brushed back his hair. Ragnvaldr took notice of the hair that had been shaved, to spite the head-shaven monks of the monastery, was beginning to grow out again. 

More silence. This time it fell on them like a warm blanket. Answers left unanswered but there was no rush, no fear. It was simple confusion and they were both, at their core, tired. Though Enki wanted to talk more on the matter and take into further discussion as to what the problem was, he felt as though he couldn't. There was too much, they were still recovering and-

"What did the cat do to you?"

The gaunt face looked up between his fingers. "Cat?"

The outlander looked taken aback. 

"When you were found, you were unconscious." His eyes darted to one side, downwards to recall the events that had happened two to three nights prior. "You were lying down in the water, your face somewhat covered by the rain and then a hand. It was Pocketcat."

The image of a tall, uniquely animorphed creature, with one hand rummaging in his pocket made the two of them equally wrinkle their noses. Enki's did more so than the warrior. He could recall those awful, ugly eyes of yellow. The slit pupils always seemed to pry through the body of any that talked to it. That was all the Pocketcat wanted, save for children. Whatever the children thief wanted was beyond the two of them, especially when it came to having been hovering over the dark priest.

The platinum blond sighed and waved the other away. "Leave me. I have work to do."

The conversation ended there and Ragnvaldr continued on to visit the ex-knight. 

Enki fell asleep before the sun had fully settled and set on the day. His struggling body, wrought with fatigue, illness and famine, was unable to rise and fall with the sun anymore. At least, not for now. There was no dream to plague him this time. His body collapsed among the sheets he had written on and his books had been thrown haphazardly across the room. Particularly out of clean and clear frustration that D'arce had noticed only an hour before he had collapsed in her bed once more.

By 1am, where the moon was at its highest point and trying to shed light on the wet streets, Enki opened his eyes. He could feel nothing but a strange cloudiness in his head and he found his body hard to move. His lips were cold, there was a weight on his chest and he found himself struggling to move.

Something was wrong but, this time, it felt different. It was as though his body wasn't trying to warn him but, rather, his mind. 

A white face appeared in front of his. There was no feature he could see but a breath on his lashes made his skin crawl heavily. He could feel goosebumps rising on his skin and it felt like hands were pressing downwards on his shoulders, keeping him from moving. It almost hurt as he felt himself become pushed further, downward into the bed. It felt like he was burning, if not suffocating as he tried to move, tried to do anything to get this ghost out of his face. 

_Move. Move!_

That sharp pain from before escalated through his figure again. He couldn't move, he could barely breathe and he couldn't even clench his teeth as hot pain snapped at every nerve in his body. It made each breath seize in his chest, every twitch of the eye searing hot as though he had lost it and, all at once, he wondered if he was going to die in a place he had been resting peacefully in.

All at once, it stopped.

Enki gasped, sitting upright so fast he could feel his head swim and white spots danced in his eyes. 

Weakly, he threw back the covers. His body became inspired and motivated with fiery determination. Whoever had him pinned down, or whatever it had been, it was surely going to happen to D'arce. It was surely going to be looming over her while she slept, strangling her slowly and watching her face contort into the most painful of moments of her life.

He slammed the door open and she screamed. A hand was on her sword hilt in a single second, pointed directly at him. Her hair was disheveled, like she had been struggling with a vivid nightmare and her eyes of vibrant blue were as wide as they could be. It was like how she had been for the first time during the beating she had received within the Cavedweller's habitat. 

"Enki?"

The sword collapsed to the floor with a clatter and she was up on her bare feet. She barely flinched at the cold air that had settled from within. "Enki is that- are you okay?"

Short nails dug hard into the doorframe as he realized how much effort was going into standing alone. He could feel his chest heaving, aching for air. His knees could barely hold him up and he felt his entire body shaking under the pressure of having stood up with only the motivation of a rage that something had been on him and something was there to torment them once again. 

"Where is it?"

She flinched, as though he had insulted her. "What?"

"Something was _here_." He glanced around the room and then her bedroom, his body screaming to be back in bed or lying down. He ignored it. "Something was on me. Something was here and laying _on me_, knight." He ignored her second flinch as he casted a glance over his shoulder, trying to find that white face again. 

"No one else is here, Enki. Are you... are you hurt?"

He shook his head, heaving a sigh that made him sound as though he had aged considerably. Despite his rage and his bitterness in that moment, D'arce lit a candle and then parted his sea of unkempt hair, trying to get a good look at his face. The older one looked up and she smiled sweetly. 

"Hey. It's going to be okay. You're safe. _I'm _safe. No one's here but us." Like a mother soothing a child, she brought her hands apart to keep Enki's hair out of his face and then settled her hands, calloused yet gentle, on his shoulders. "I can put on some tea? But, first, let's get you back into the bed. Before you collapse?"

The dark priest glanced to the side, feeling pathetic and pitiful for having thrown such a tantrum. The way she spoke to him was not to be meant as demeaning, but he felt it. He would have to lean on her, listen to her words and let himself be taken in by her motherly care for the time being. For now, he would just have to deal with it in his weakened state of mind. 

Eventually, head upon her lap, he slept once again. The tea had soothed him well enough and with her fingers running through his hair he avoided seeing her running out into the night.

* * *

Bare feet hit the dirty cobblestone. Dirt and grime mixed with drying rain water but that didn't stop her from seeing the beautiful, gorgeous man in front of her. The beautiful man with long hair, soulful eyes of a leader and a smile that asked her, once again, to show off her skills in the best ways possible.

Le'garde was standing in the middle of Rondon's streets. His sword was sheathed at his side and his collar was high upon his body. He looked regal, splendid and he was everything she remembered about him before she had found him dead; dead, forgotten and lost to the dungeons that had consumed both his body and her hope all in one swallow. When he had died, everything she had tried to do was washed away like the corpses with the monsoons of Rondon's spring. 

She wanted to speak his name, scream it even, but as soon as she opened her mouth all of the words died in her throat. He didn't give her the time of day either as he simply smiled and then began to walk down the nearest streets with haste.

She failed to notice the lack of noise his armor emitted.

D'arce gave chase, thoughts pounding through her mind as her feet kicked up mud.

Le'garde was dead. _Supposed _to be dead. He was dead, as dead as one could get! His throat had been slit, his body tortured endlessly with god knows what tools. He had died; he had died in a cruel event of trying to help the villages, towns and the Kingdom itself of Rondon. The people of Rondon had called out to him, asking for aid and he had given his all only to die at the hands of the royal garbs that sat so neatly on their perches. They were well-fed birds while the rest of them were to suffer under the wing of war and famine. 

Le'garde had suffered tragically. If only she had been a little faster. If only she had moved _faster. _

Blindly, she followed. The man was fast on his feet despite the armor. He seemed to navigate through the woods easily but she couldn't put it past him that he would know the place so well. It was Rondon and he was one of the greatest men she had ever met. What _couldn't _he do?

He stopped eventually and so did she, sweat clinging to her neck and her chest heaving for air. She had doubled over, her nightgown hem was muddy and she felt as though she had ran off as though she was chasing Cahara for his misdeeds. Ergo, she hadn't been prepared and was now facing the consequences. The idea of the "consequences" were immediately pushed aside, however, as she looked up and still saw his face, lit by moonlight and glowing.

He was so pretty. 

She was afraid to speak. She wondered if it was a dream and if she did anything to disrupt the flow of it, she would wake up and be forced to relive another day without someone she had managed to care so deeply for. 

"Le'garde?" Her voice, seized by heavy breathing and barely above a whisper, just managed to get out a single word. 

His smile made her weak in the knees and, thankfully, it didn't look like he was going to go anywhere else that evening.

"I've missed you."

Soft, deep words washed over her and the tears came before she could stop them. Though she had grieved again and again, hearing Le'garde and seeing him so solidly real in front of her was making her start to sob again. 

"I've missed you too." She straightened, wiping at her eyes and trying to refrain from crying like a child. To cry in front of her captain, how shameful could she be!?

"I'm sorry." His voice had come quite a bit closer this time, hovering over her. She looked up, eyeing the oceanic blue of his eyes that she had lost herself in time and time again. "I hurt you a lot without meaning to. I scared you. I'm sorry."

She looked horrified. 

"Were you alive all this time? In those dungeons? Oh Alll-mer!" She buried her face in her hands for a moment and then sharply raised her head, trying to make sense of it all. Though she desperately wanted to bury her face into her palms and cry for her idiocy of leaving her captain behind, she wanted to look strong for him. D'arce wanted him to know that she wouldn't just hang her head in despair in front of him.

Le'garde, thankfully, shook his head.

"I was dead, I suppose, when you reached me. But the gods saw that I was worthy of a proper rebirth."

The woman's eyes widened and she beamed. 

"But you're back! You can do so much now! Rondon still needs a great leader and-!" Her hopes and her excited words were dashed as he held up a hand, shaking his head. His eyes were closed as he spoke again, hiding solemn eyes.

"I cannot. There are things that I must do." Her heart sank. "Back in those dungeons."

"But... why there?" She briefly recalled the slaughter of the Olegardian people. Did he want to do the same thing to everything else in the dungeons? Why would he want to go back to the dungeons that had left him with his throat slit, head limp and body soaked in crimson? Surely... surely it wasn't for revenge? 

Two hands, as cold as winter's breath, took hers. She could feel goosebumps climbing over her body and a knot formed in her stomach. It took her a moment to realize that it wasn't anxiety over being so close to her crush. It was something else. It was an anxiety to run away, to pull back and sprint back home and hide even in Enki's cloak. All of a sudden the flushing color of her cheekbones was sucked away by his very touch. 

"There is something that I must do, in the darkness." Sweet eyes locked on hers and she felt a horrific feeling clutch at her body so violently she wanted to vomit. "And will you not join me?"

Vertigo gripped her. Had she not been holding his hands, she would have collapsed to her knees. All she could see, for a moment, was the eyes of blue that were trying to peel her apart. At this point, even she, a woman of chastity, would have preferred that the man undressed her with his eyes instead of trying to peel back layers upon layers of pulsing meat and bone. She felt that one word would have her at his mercy and she knew better than to believe that Le'garde would do something like that. Surely he was not the kind of man to simply pull her back into the slaughter of the dungeons that made her ill with anguish? 

But could she really deny him?

"May I... be given some time to think? Next nightfall, here?"

Those soft eyes became cold as steel and she found it difficult to steady herself against it. He relented anyway with a smile that was so familiar yet not so. 

"I understand." He let go of her hands. The warmth in her body did not return. "I will see you tomorrow, in the night."

All at once, the man disappeared. The soul-sucking feeling and the gripping chill all left that spot she hadn't know occurred. Frost lined the leaves of trees and the cracking bark of the trunks and she, who looked down at her hands and flinched, sprinted home to stick her frostbitten fingers into a bowl of hot water. 


	6. Chapter 6

Another day, another hunt out in the wilds to avoid the dwindling population of Rondon. Though Ragnvaldr didn't particularly care for the Kingdom entirely, he felt for those who had suffered the most. There were women with pregnant bellies that barely had enough to help their child thrive in the decrepit world and men disappeared from the countryside under mysterious accidents or murders. Children were left unattended, abandoned to roam the streets as similarly as rats from their own shitholes. In the end, everyone suffered and only the ones that had any benefit were the higher ups. But even then their stories were as horrid as a corpse swinging from a hanging tree. 

At 7 in the morning, where the sun was high enough for owls to go back home and deer were able to rise, the outlander heard a cry. It sounded akin to a rabbit. When caught in a trap it squealed. This sound was similar, leading him to wonder if another hunter was scavenging the area for food. It took him a moment to clue in on the direction but once found he began to prowl forward, taking careful measures to keep his footsteps quiet and his eyes directly ahead of him. If there _was_ another scavenger in the area, then he would have to watch more closely for rigged traps in the cold soil. Not only that but bear traps tended to be invisible under the color of the cold season's fallen leaves.

The cry turned familiar. He had heard it so many times before during the month after his Hilda had given birth. Without thinking, he sprinted forward, quiver full of iron-tipped arrows beating against his back with each step he had taken. Adrenaline, formed from the depths of his short-lived parenthood, moved him forward.

A child sat in a net high above the ground. He was wailing and looked to be about the age of five. About the age as... as...

The man kneeled down, setting down his bow and his quiver. Deciding that the child's life mattered more than a net, the outlander surveyed the area briefly and then began to climb upwards along rigid bark. The tree with the net seemed to be the only one rigged and, in only a a minute or two, he had cut a shredded hole in the net for the child to climb through.

With one hand out and the other keeping him steady on the branches, Ragnvaldr waited with extreme patience for the wailing boy to finally stop his crying and climb over to him. It took time and a few words of encouragement before Ragnvaldr wrapped his arm around the child, supporting him against his side. He moved a little at a time away from the tree, hopping from steady branch to branch that could barely hold his muscled weight up until he dropped, finally, to the forest floor.

He set the boy down on his own feet. He had finally settled his crying fit and was simply trying to cling to his arm.

Ragnvaldr kneeled. "Are you hurt?" So far, the child had a few bruises and scratches. There was nothing serious but some were clearly more painful as the child turn around, showing a long scratch in his back. 

"It looks okay," the Oldegårdian muttered before tapping the boy's shoulder, getting him to turn around with a swollen, red face staring upwards at him. "Why are you out here?"

He hiccuped and sputtered. "Out with Papa. Looking for... for food." He brought his roughed up hands to his face as he started to cry again. "Papa's gone! Didn't come back all night!"

"All night?"

That didn't make sense. How could a man disappear for 10 or more hours and leave his kid behind? Either the father was neglectful or something else was stirring. With Pocketcat hanging around, he didn't want to think about what could have happened to the child, what with all of the already missing children that remained to never be found again. 

Ragnvaldr sighed and straightened. There was at least _one _thing he could do. It would make him feel better. "Come. Let us find your father together."

The boy was surprised but he didn't give the hurt and fumbling child enough time to respond. He took to wandering off back into the woods, quick enough to where he could hear the child scrambling after him. 

Though it was unknown if he would take him under his wing, perhaps he could teach him a little while they walked back home. 

* * *

It was hard to move this morning. Though the sun rose beautifully through a cerulean sky, void of weeping clouds, there was only a strange emptiness that flooded D'arce's chest. It stayed there up until she could actually hear Enki moving around. Particularly when he wasn't supposed to be yet.

But even then there was something within her that made her not want to move.

D'arce forced herself and moved to her feet, feeling a horrible ache in her bare soles as she left the warm bed. Enki was already up, tenderly feeling along the stove that was slowly heating up from the bottom of its wooden belly. Though she quickly reprimanded him she was visibly stunned at the idea that he already was capable of standing. Not to mention he knew his way around quite well. He knew where the loose leaves were, he knew where she kept the matches- all from careful listening from his borrowed room. Her room. Or maybe he could just see from that angle? No, no. 

"Enki, you're supposed to be resting-!"

"You're an hour late, D'arce," he quietly snipped. "You're usually never a minute behind unless you stub your toe."

Her dry lips pinched together and she moved forward, patting his shoulders. 

"Let me help, at least. How are you feeling?"

He scoffed quietly but answered with a warm sincerity towards her. "Like hell. But I can stand." Unlike a night ago.

D'arce looked him over, blue eyes taking in his filling hairline, the way his stony eyes stared out the nearest window and how his pale knuckles slowly moved on their own. It was like he was internally casting a spell that she would never know about. His work was his and it usually was never spoken about towards the rest of the group. But her curiosity was nigh as she tried to no longer think about how senseless she had once been towards it. Towards him and other dark priests.

"Will you be doing spellwork today?"

"No. Not how I usually do."

D'arce's brow furrowed. What did he mean? Luckily, he continued to speak.

"I am sensing something. Something that drives knives up my spine and gives me migraines. And no-" he began, looking up, "it is not illness that prevails over my body. It is different. It is accursed." 

The words barely make her flinch this time. She steadied herself with preparing a hot kettle of water for the dried herbs. His language, though strange and uninhibited, never really lied to him nor to anyone that he stuck to. But it still raised questions up within her.

"So, you mean to say that something is driving you mad?"

Enki stared at the warming stove, bony wrists resting just outside of the hot spot. His eyes, as grey as a weeping storm, seemed to become transfixed on a spot as he lost himself in his own mind. His mind was a thundercloud, sparkling with questions and driving itself into a whirlwind of catastrophic theories or harsh words. There was always something on his mind, even if it was deemed to be nothing much by his own words. 

He finally pulled back a bit, long strands of platinum blond stringing themselves over his face. 

"Something is watching us. If not many things it is _one _that will seek to tear into us, one by one." He pushed himself away and began to stride for the bed he had been resting in. "I will pack my things and head back home."

"What?"

"I must speak to Cahara about the child his woman will bear soon." Books began to stack up in his arms with haste. "I have learned that that blasted cat was the last thing that had seen me in the floods of Rondon." He gritted his teeth and fished for his bag beneath the bed. "Surely the bastard will need rest while _I _try to find the damned feline."

D'arce felt flames stoke in her belly as she fought against his words. "You can't! You've barely recovered, Enki. Going out like this now-"

"If I don't I will become sore without anything to do. I will be unable to work my magics and I will be itching to cleave someone in two." He looked up and at her. "I cannot sit still, the same way you cannot stop yourself from buying a rouncey of all things."

She flinched and blushed, saying no more for a moment.

"Um, Enki?"

He looked up from his thickening book bag. 

"Do you want me to keep the tea warm for you? For when you get back?"

She watched him inhale deeply and then exhale. Finally, he nodded and began to go back to stuffing the papers, the journals and more into his bag. "Fine. If I can quell your loneliness then so be it. But I may be hours-"

"That's okay!"

Though it was not loneliness that inspired her to ask him to stay with her. It was a fear that he would not come back home ever again, it was an uncertainty that she would see that pretty face again and be lured into a freezing touch. Enki was going to be thrown back into the wolves, particularly of his own accord, and she still worried for him. Not only did he have his own demons following after him but the church had yet to find out that a dark priest was in the area. 

Enki stared at her for a little while and then began to finish. Only up until it was brimming with goods did he finally stop, slinging it over his weak shoulder. Lastly, his boots were buckled up beneath his robes, exposing enough leg for D'arce to avert her eyes. His gloves were pushed up over his wrist and he finally turned.

"I will be back eventually. Not today, I don't think. Or if so, it will be morning."

She met his eyes again and, for a moment, they were terribly solemn. It disappeared as he began to head out of the house.

"Don't get your head onto the chopping block," he said, leaving and disappearing in less than 10 seconds. 

The silence wasn't quite forlorn. Though she felt a bit bitter about the aspect there was also a sense of peace. She had to put her faith in him and, clearly, he had some form of faith with her that made her smile a little. It made her pleased to where, for the rest of the hour as she sipped her tea, she could only think about that beautiful face of her captain and the urgency of his words last night. For a moment, all fear was wiped away as she wondered if the world could feel this good all the time. 

She just couldn't think about what Enki meant, with Cahara's upcoming kid and Pocketcat. The very thought made her ill, so she just couldn't think about it. Not right now. Not right now.

Two hours had passed since the dark priest's departure. So she had spent the day cleaning her small house, cooking up a pot of leftover stew and settling with tea at the window. Afterwards she let herself wander to Ragnvaldr's home, deciding to take care of the rouncey that was content in remaining tied up outside to a makeshift weight. The mare didn't care as she nibbled older hay and watched birds flit about on the rooftops.

D'arce immediately coo'ed as she approached the old girl, hoping to have a peaceful time of brushing out her mane and coat. She hoped to later have a chance to go for a ride, see if there were any people that required help to their day, their gardens and their lives.

"D'arce."

Ragnvaldr's voice came to her as she daydreamed and she jumped, turning towards him.

"I need your help," the Oldegardian stated, holding the hand of a sniffling child who looked uncertain but quite calm. "He has lost his father in the woods. We need to look for him and take care of him for a bit. Or find someone who can."

The knight gawked a little but immediately pulled her skirts up a bit, squatting on her heels to talk to the boy.

"Hello," she muttered. "What's your name?"

The child sniffed but spoke. "Ithander."

"Ithander!" D'arce nodded. "That's a nice name. I'm D'arce! And this big man," she gestured, "is Ragnvaldr. But maybe you can call him Ran!" She could hear the older man give a grunt of a sigh at her antics but he didn't reprimand her for her somewhat childish nature.

She stood back up. "Well, I was thinking of taking Anne for a walk." She ignored his raising brow. "She needs to move, to stretch! So perhaps I can take the child for now and help him around town?"

They nodded in agreement and set off in the same quest yet separate ways. Doors were knocked on, the fair horse barged through the main square to make room for the announcement and many of the guards were prodded about the familiarity of the face of the boy. The sun rose higher and higher into the day and the hours were becoming dragged. The boy received no word of his father but was able to return home with his mother, who was ecstatic to see her child but asked the woman to look for her husband. 

D'arce didn't know if she could make that kind of promise with her mind thinking back to the corpse of her beloved captain flashing behind her eyelids. But her heart said to try while she still had the ability to do so.

Ragnvaldr, in the afternoon, appeared back in between their homes. He began to build up the makeshift stable for the old mare. He knew he wasn't going to get very far as the day dipped lower and lower, but he knew that he had to get something done to prevent the worries from plaguing him. 

D'arce let the rouncey stay near, nibbling back on the straw and drinking from the fresh water barrel. She didn't sit back and watch the outlander do all of the work. She used her own bare hands to push the wood into place and shove the metal nails into place. Using a brick, she helped hammer the main frame into place, starting with the slope up into the stable that would help keep the mare off of muddy ground in case floods happened again. Courtesy of Ragnvaldr's open thinking and patient hand, who wanted to take his time in this newfound project.

From where she stood, holding up lumber, she could see he had discarded the fur along his back to keep his neck warm. There were awful scars to his body, some that she recognized from the dungeons and some she had never seen before as his hair threatened to fall in his face. She could see them everytime he tightened his biceps, rolled his shoulders and even exerted force to nail in another piece of wood together, or wrapping twine around a small section of jointed wood. It was fascinating and one of them she remembered even helping him clean when he had finally tolerated her existence, when he finally was too weak to snap at her from his infection.

They had come from a long way, hadn't they?

It was dinner when they had stopped. D'arce could feel the sweat on her back despite the oncoming cold wind of night and Ragnvaldr himself had a shine of sweat covering his entire body. 

She sighed and looked to him. "Would you like to come inside for dinner?" 

"You have extra meat and vegetables?"

"Sometimes I buy too much for myself, I think."

"Are you meaning to tell me that you are taking care of the rest of us?"

She grinned a little and brushed past him with a little hop to her step. To keep her mind steady she just had to stop thinking for a moment about the world and focus on cooking. It was essential for survival and, if she thought too much, she was likely to break down.

* * *

Two men sat in silence around the warmth of the barest candles. A bottle of rum sat on that same table, empty with only a few droplets. The warmth of the alcohol fared much better to the two as they sat in a rather strangled silence. 

"You think," the mercenary began into cold silence, "that the dungeons are trying to take us back?"

Enki could hear the slight quiver to his words. The boy never had managed to show fear, so he coined the shakiness up to worry; worry for the expected child and the mother-to-be. Even then, after the dungeons, Cahara was more shaken than when he was usually. Though he had money from the Salmonsnake's stone crown and the rest of the riches he had grudged up from the depths of darkness, even the steadfast and hearty mercenary had changed into someone who was capable of being forever paranoid.

The dark priest ran his gloved fingers over his eyes, fighting the ache of sleep. "Very much so. It is undeniable at this point, ever since I fell under in sickness."

Two hands ran through raven blue hair. Enki could see the blue tint in the candlelight like a raven's feather.

"What do we do?"

"Fight," answered the intellect. It made Cahara lift his head with a glimmer of intrigue in his eyes. "We do as we have always done. Use your brain, half-wit."

The thief chuckled and shrugged his shoulders. "Sounds easy enough, I guess. Been doing it all my life, so I guess now doesn't change anything, right?"

Another bottle was popped. The satisfying _pop _of the cork and the fizz of the pour into the old tumblers was oh-so-delightful. It was, for a moment, one of life's little pleasures as they indulged in downing another pop of, this time, cheap beer.

Little by little, the mercenary lost his edge and, eventually, was asleep hard on the worn and busted couch. Enki was, somehow, surprised that the boy was able to fall asleep on the horribly unkempt couch, with its holes and ungodly staining. 

The priest got up from the couch, solidly tipsy, and immediately saw a very pregnant Celeste standing in the doorway. Worry was etched on her face as easily as a Renaissance painting. 

"Is he okay?"

He approached her with a strong gait, despite the weariness in his body from having little food and mostly booze. "He has been having nightmares. And some of those are coming true." _Have been true. _

The woman's eyes, though weary and wary, remained steady. Those beautiful eyes of womanhood shined with a determination that he recognized even in D'arce. The steadfast pace of a woman was something that always kept them alive; it was usually why Ragnvaldr always talked about honoring the women of Rondon, when most of the warriors of Oldegard happened to have been women, not men.

"What can I do?"

The dark priest watched the pale woman for a long moment, the way her wirey white hair framed her face. He could see the amount of hardships she had been through by looking at her jawline, the thinness of her lips and the way she held her weight and inner strength on her sleeves.

He shook his head. "Protect yourself and the baby. Never let your child go outside in the rain alone. Avoid the cats of the street and the light of the moon. Protect the child by being there."

One hand wrapped protectively around her swollen belly but her eyes didn't leave him. "What is after the children of Rondon? I have seen the numerous missing papers, the old parchments lost to time in the slums of the streets." She shook her head, those strong eyes quickly becoming moist. "Tell me, do you know what it is?"

He pinched his lips together for a moment but told the truth. "A large, disgusting amalgamation. A man who looks like a cat, with yellow eyes. Watch for the yellow eyes."

With his bag over his shoulder and his stoney eyes forward, he left the brothel. Celeste was left alone for the rest of the evening, her lover drunk and her body exhausted. 

What had these warriors seen?

* * *

_Bitter cold,_

_deliciously beautiful,_

_with soft locks and a tender smile,_

_the chill was forgotten_

_and he led her into darkness_

_where the moon couldn't see._


	7. Chapter 7

There was something different to the woman, Ragnvaldr noticed.

The red-head was up later than usual by a solid two hours. As she walked out, her hair was unbrushed, dirty even. There were bits of leaves hanging on the very edges of her hair that she was clearly trying to comb out with her fingers, but a far-off gaze kept her from actually doing anything about it and although she was outside to try and help him with building the stables again, Ragnvaldr knew better than to let her assist. 

However, Ragnvaldr realized he was incorrect in his original speculation. There wasn't something _different_ about D'arce's far-off behavior. There was something _wrong. _

Thus, before lunch, the man had set off out of town with the rouncey in case D'arce decided to take a ride to somewhere and get lost, or hurt. He ultimately decided that if he was to do anything that day it was set the peace within himself and those around him. The stable could be managed later and he needed to wait for more lumber anyway from the lumberjack up to the east of Rondon. 

A thick hand came up from the reins of the rouncey's bridle and knocked on the wood of an old, bruising door. He had decided to stay on her back and in the saddle. The place he was at was decrepit, worn and lonely. He knew that the presence that lived there, despite its familiarity, was the only place he could essentially go to for answers. Even then, he could have been turned away like he was nothing more than a beggar. That was how this bastard was.

The door opened after a series of shuffles coming from inside. Enki's stormcloud eyes fixed on the outlander, who steeled himself under the gaze.

"Ragnvaldr." It was an addressing tone. Not a question.

The red-headed man nodded once in acknowledgement, particularly in greeting, then spoke. "I am by no means a village shaman," he began, "but I have use for your eyesight in herbal techniques. Not magic."

A thin eyebrow shot up towards the filling hairline of the priest. "And what would that be?" He leaned on the partially open doorway. "Insomnia? Internal bleeding?" He put a gloved hand up to his head. "Night terrors?"

Ragnvaldr swung a leg over the saddle and dropped to the ground with a thud. "What can you tell me about someone who wakes with a dazed eye? Unfocused and staring in one direction, no matter the environmental danger."

The Gro-goroth worshipper hummed under his breath and pushed open the door. Only then did Ragnvaldr notice the walking cane of oak that the priest was using until his strength fully came back. It appeared he had hurt his leg not that long ago. Perhaps even hours prior. Ragnvaldr decided to remember it and etch it into his mind before he followed him inside.

The smell of something pungent and acrid reached his nose. It made his face turn in disgust as he realized the smell was very similar to the black ooze that had seeped out of the walls of the damned dungeons.

Up ahead, Enki took to standing over the boiling pot, hair over one shoulder to make it more manageable if the locks slipped into the brew. His sunken eyes were focused despite the clear exhaust on his face. Had he been up all night?

"It is likely from trauma," he muttered, straightening to comb over the books in his shelf. "Terrible trauma, to where the senses pull in a person. It makes one lose themselves in their unconsciousness mind; a part of the brain that is dark and in need of healing to feel peace." 

Enki began to flip through pages upon pages. Ragnvaldr recognized it as the dark priest's own handwriting with its tyrannical scribbles.

"It will require something similar to smelling salts." Another few flips of a page. "It needs to wake them up, bring them out of their reverie."

"What do you have in mind?"

Enki, leaning on his cane with one hand, eventually sat down on a single wooden crate. "Depends on what the outcome should be. Should you proceed through the procedure as quickly as possible, then there is danger for further rot and the _constant_ need for medication. It requires ingredients similar to herbal remedies but they are easier to find in comparison to everyday foraging." He tossed another page of the book to the side, letting a finger cascade down the words birthed by his own ink quill. 

"Knowing the church they'll try bloodletting. Which actually doesn't _do _anything. They'll want to peel back the cranium, expose the bone to let "the demons" out," he spoke with heavy sarcasm, "and then sew up the body to make it even weaker than before, and a spot prone to infection.

"Though there's no infected area on the dazed person, see if you can try aromatics." The book closed and Enki set it on his lap. "Oil of roses, the smell of pine and mushrooms. For now all you can bring the senses back to the surface." 

That made sense. If the old memories had regressed into their head, then they should be brought back in the front by being in the present.

Ragnvaldr nodded and they shared a gaze. 

The outlander spoke first. "Your leg. What happened?" 

Enki shrugged his thin shoulders. "Fell on my way home. I made it a habit to walk home after dark, so I stumble easily."

For some reason, he felt like the dark priest was lying. "Be careful-"

"Don't chastise me."

There was a tension in the air all at once. With a vice grip there was an anger in a hellish second, stopping them both from breathing. Enki held his breath as he realized his own attitude got the better of him, and Ragnvaldr had to clench his jaw to not suddenly strike the dark priest.

The outlander rode home quickly, the door to the cabin slamming so hard the hinges almost lost their traction. 

* * *

Cahara breathed out a sigh as he rummaged his dirty hands through greasy coinbags. It was hard to see in this black alleyway, only brightened by the upcoming daylight hours. As he let his right hand roam through those leather pockets, he swiped his bloodied knife on the pants of a fallen bandit. 

"Sorry guys," he muttered, "but I need this right now, for old times's sake."

There was a scoff behind him. For a moment, his blood ran cold and the end of his life flashed in front of his eyes with memories of all that was good, all that he had defeated. Cahara whipped around and saw, in the shade of the empty alleyway, a horrifically familiar yet grinning face. 

The mercenary leapt up to his feet so fast that the goods he had acquired spilled across crooked cobble. The stranger wheezed a laugh, a laugh that made its whiskers bounce.

"Well, well. If it isn't the old bandit of the dungeons," came the hissing yet rather alluring voice. "For old times sake? Why not come back down? It's getting a little lonely without the raiders, you know." 

Cahara hated the lips that formed words despite the impeccable amount of fur and the curling corners of the mouth. He hated everything about the child eater. 

He readied his dagger, ready to aim for the gut of the tall creature, who only laughed at him. He hated that, too.

"What's wrong, mercenary? Cat got your tongue? Fur in a knot? Perfect plan ruined for the day?" Cahara's eyebrows twitched. 

_Breathe in, Cahara. Don't let him know you're this worked up. _He took in a breath. _Same smile, same face, same sarcastic tone. _

The thief eased up slowly, dropping his weapon slightly but remaining tense. He let himself crack a smile like a hammer to thin glass and nodded. "Heh, yeah. You're a real spooky surprise. You know that, right?"

Pocketcat shrugged his lithe shoulders and Cahara could momentarily get a grasp that this fucker really could land on all four feet. "I get that, I get that. But I'm your _friend, _you know. Not a foe. I don't want to fight you!" He chuckled and that alone made Cahara gather goosebumps on his arms. "Nooo, nooo. I want to help you."

"Help?" The thief frowned again but folded his arms as the cat began to pace back and forth. "You didn't help much when you decided to nearly drown the priest."

"Ohh, right, right. That. That was a silly little misunderstanding!" He stretched his hands out, as though trying to present his facts. "He collapsed to the ground without any of my doing! Mumbling something under his breath, probably an incantation, and then dropped to the ground like a dead fly! Or, rather, like any other man who gave up hope!" 

Pocketcat's laugh sucked up the relief in the mercenary's chest like a dry sponge to water. 

The cat continued. "So, Alll-mer only knows what happened to him. Maybe he's back to those old antics of his. Remember how he was back at that beautiful, wondrous library?" 

Cahara vaguely remembered the astute priest's bitter behavior melting at the sight of Ma'havre's library. It was old, grand, and had books from almost every century that could have been compiled by genius after genius. Crackhead after crackhead. Cahara didn't really care much for leather bound nonsense. 

Cahara gave a nod. "He was all dreamy-eyed about being able to see some kind of wonders." He gave a quick laugh to try to brush off his goosebumps. "Still don't know why he came with us, though."

Pocketcat's smile grew tenfold. Cahara watched with horror as the corners of that mouth stretched up to wide eyes that seemed to burn his soul. _What a horrible burn. _

"Oh, well, maybe you should ask him." The cat turned away, walking down an alleyway in thigh-high riding boots. The clicking of the heels began to fade, marking his upcoming absence. "Then again, it's not like anything he says matters. He won't give you anything while he takes it all."

Cahara stood there for what felt like an eternity, listening to the clicking heels that carried down through the winding alleyways. He stayed until it all disappeared. Even the wind didn't dare partake to the festivities of horror.

There was a certain numbness to Cahara's body. It was familiar but it was so heavy in his soul. Molasses in a form that he couldn't see as he struggled to pocket everything he could in that moment, gathering everything in his arms that could not fit in his bustling bag, and then sprinting home; sprinting as hard as he could and tearing around sharp corners, fingers latching onto crooked gutters to keep him from falling over. 

For a moment, it all returned. All of the rotten smells of the unwashed, the dead- all of the senses of being chased by something that crawled or howled like the Devil himself. He didn't stop to remind himself he was here, in Rondon, safe and sound. He didn't dare think about the road ahead, the road that could potentially turn and lead him to the open beak of the Crow Mauler. 

_Don't look back. Don't let them get you. Keep running. Keep running. Only you matter. Only you. Get home. Get home. Home. _

Hand on the knob to the empty brothel, Cahara darted inside, gasping.

Celeste's worried face popped around the corner. The smell of food from the baker didn't hit him at all, not over the smell of gore.

"Cahara?"

He couldn't hide it anymore. He couldn't hide his thievery and he couldn't hide the hot tears that spilled. He couldn't hide his quivering lips, nor the wails that emitted from him as Celeste held him warmly.

Cahara held onto her tightly, and didn't dare let go as he heard the roar of the guard oh-so far behind him, even when nothing was there.

It was an hour before Cahara was calm enough to hear the words of his beloved. She ran her hands through his hair and down his back, trying to console him.

"There's breakfast on the table," she coo'd. It didn't bring him any peace yet. He just nodded into the crook of her shoulder until she pulled his head up. Her hands were warm, warmer than his face despite his crying fit. "Let's take the time to eat, okay? Let's calm down, get you cleaned up afterwards with a bath. Okay?"

The coinbags and jewels were left behind at the locked front door. Breakfast was made simple and Cahara found that even the bread tasted anything but fresh. It was moldy, dry and tasted awful. He consumed it anyway, feeling nothing but a numbness at the tip of his tongue.

The bath took time. It took both of them moving buckets of warm, stove water from the fire to the wooden bath again and again. It took an hour but, eventually, the mercenary finally collapsed into water. 

"Cahara?" 

He looked up towards Celeste, feeling faded and distant. She responded by running her hands through his hair, singing softly old lullabies that they grew up on.

"Cahara... You don't have to hide your feelings from me, okay?"

This time he sighed and looked up. "I know. I'm just... A little weirded out."

"You're scared," she corrected. And he shut up. It caused her to sigh and then rest her cheek on his hot forehead. She cradled him with a motherly touch that he leaned into, causing more of his emotions to collect in a soft sob and at the corners of his eyes.

"I've got you, sweetie... I've got you. You're safe in my arms."

The tears came again and he held onto her softly, ear pressed against her chest. He spoke between sobs, "But I want you safe, too. I want you to be safe in _my _arms."

Celeste ran her fingers through his hair. "I know. But that's when the child comes along, okay? But right now, let's take care of you, first."

He shook his head, burying his face as close as possible into her. "I don't deserve you."

"Nonsense, silly!" Her soft lips kissed the top of his head. "I'm here for you. And I always will be because I love you."

Cahara swallowed back saliva and looked up at her finally, taking in her platinum hair and her soft eyes. She smiled and kissed his forehead, then his eyelids before finally letting him rest, sleeping the rest of the nightmareish fever away until night.

And she would never know how much staying up at night meant to him.

* * *

There was a chill running through him. It was strong and it left the smell of sulfur in his nose. It made him avoid sitting still and it made him close his books to hobble outside into the woods. The smell of sulfur remained in his senses, guiding him to nowhere but foretelling the dangers of the night time. 

Enki didn't usually stick his neck out into the foggy woodlands. He wasn't typically _that _stupid to pull off a trick that would get himself killed faster. 

The dark priest grabbed the oak cane and began to move along the pathway, donning his robe over his nightgown so as to give him more protection than what he would usually have if he just wore his nightie around. Besides, the extra protection against the cold was going to be beneficial in the long run as he walked. He deviated off of his dirt path to Rondon and continued to make his way towards a place he only dreamed of going- one way or the other. As much as he wanted that library, and as much as he wanted to open those books and devour it all...

A cold chill invigorated his senses and then sucked out the life from his own body. It made him feel every scar and stitch he had in his skin, every laceration he had to his internal organs when they had all been struggling to breathe in the fumes of death. 

And, gods, it was _exactly _like the dungeons that had wrung them dry of their provisions and their lives. It made their stomachs growl, their bodies ache and their minds wilt under the pressure of foreign and malevolent whispers.

Frost absolutely _covered _a large part of the forest. It made a wilting archway, preserved in time until the hottest days of summer rolled around. And that wouldn't be a few more months, that much was for certain as they slaved through the rainiest months of spring he had ever bear witness to. 

Enki walked a little quickly, not exactly a fan of his bare feet brushing through freezing cold shrubs and leaves that wanted nothing more than to cling onto his robe and keep him still. He wasn't a fan as he scanned the area, the frost reeking of something- but it wasn't the sulfur smell. It was different. It was like a cold rush of wind that was beginning to make his bones ache, as if the world was trying to peel his bones apart and chip them away. A horrible feeling. But why was it here? He had never seen anything like it before, not even among the magics of dark priests who harnessed abilities to control fire and water. But this was ice.

He carried himself through quickly, using the cane to peel apart ice and crush it so he wouldn't slip. He already had a bruising leg. There was literally no need to make it any worse than what it was already.

The tunnel of frosted leaves continued on for a stretch. It was longer than expected and Enki wondered how it had gotten there to begin with. It didn't feel like the magic of a dark priest but it was definitely otherwordly; other people couldn't use this kind of power willy-nilly unless they were engrossed into the lifestyle of it. 

A scream was the last thing he had expected to hear. Or, rather, one of the last. With this thing creeping through like a frozen snake, it had to run into someone or have a goal. It made him move a bit faster. Maybe if he could catch it eating, it would be an easier bitch to kill, but that usually wasn't always the lucky case. Rondon was usually on the _unlucky _side of the spectrum.

There was a hum that filled his ears. It was electricity, static of its own kind and it weaved through his body again like he was nothing. He knew it well as a buzzing that came from the thousands upon thousands of dead and undead that crawled only a few feet away from the entrance to this mouth of a behemoth- the dungeon. It almost made him sick but he knew better than to heave at that kind of notion. But there _was _something bothering him as he walked forward.

Wide, bright eyes of sky blue were on him as soon as he took a step through the short grass. D'arce was also present in her nightgown, her lips blue and her cheeks pale. She was lacking so much warmth that she had already stopped shivering as frost clung to her lashes.

"ENKI!"

The dark priest stood still, watching her pull away from an invisible source that held her nightgown. She was keeping it down with both hands in the front. 

"ENKI, PLEASE!"

He had never heard her scream like that for him. 

A tug at her nightgown, a clear pull into the maw of the dungeons made her scream again. It was sharp, piercing and it was one of the few things that finally made him move forward. The walking cane was nearly forfeit as he grabbed her shoulder just seconds before she was pulled so hard towards the dungeons he almost went with her. Her cold, frozen hands clung to him hard like a harpy's claws. She could barely hold on. 

The force let go and they stumbled. Enki took the time to position the oaken stick in front of her, providing a slight barricade against- _something. _

"What is it?" His voice was hoarse as she leaned into him. "D'arce, what _is it?"_

Her eyes, big and blue, looked up at him. For a moment, they shared a glance between themselves, calculating and uncertain. 

"It's Le'garde."

He couldn't believe his ears. "What?"

She couldn't say it again. The name of her beloved former captain fell on her ears and all she could do was sob into his robes, trying to get the stench of gore out and replaced with foreign spices, black coffee and black slime.

A whisper brought his face up from hers. A pair of white eyes stared at him for a second. He didn't recognize them but the dropping temperature was enough to tell him it was the thing he had followed. It backhanded him hard enough to where he tumbled backwards with D'arce. Despite her fear, he could feel her use her own weight to land beside him, instead of on him. 

Her shriek didn't make the pain in his head swim away any faster. Neither did her hand on his ankle. He looked up, gritting his teeth to see nothing again but she was being dragged by her own leg. She was kicking and flailing as best as she could, trying to use Enki as leverage to crawl further away from the dungeon that loomed only higher.

The dark priest turned and threw the cane, hoping it would whip the spirit away. Nothing happened as the grass began to turn into dirt.

"It went through him! Why is it going through him!?" He could see her looking for a weapon to use.

Enki didn't listen to her and answer. There was no time to answer questions as he turned onto his belt and began to sink his nails into the dirt. It was hard soil. Getting his fingers in was hard, and it was only getting worse as dirt turned to cobblestone and the wicked howl of the dungeons licked up their backs, drenching their skin in sweat. He kept his nails embedded into the cobblestone, waiting out each pull from their captor. 

_Harder! Dig them in harder!_

First his nails split. He kept going, even as one cracked off at the white. Then it kept going, pulling up the remaining nails that began to fill with dirt as he gritted his teeth. 

_Keep going! _One nail pulled up entirely and he could feel a white headache covered his eyes and head. He could barely hear the clatter of a sword being thrown through the spirit. 

"Le'garde, please! Please let go!"

Another nail bed lifted with a rip, similar to silk on a thorn.

Blood finally soiled his hands. He couldn't feel his fingers, but it didn't matter as he finally turned off his belly and spread his bloodied hands.

_"Contra impetum!"_

There was a noise. It was like a sack of meat hitting a wall. It gave him a sense of triumph as the force of being let go made the counterattack force them back into the entryway. 

D'arce scrambled up the fastest. With deft hands and quick feet, she grabbed not only his walking cane, but him as well by the bicep and lifted with all of her might. Her adrenaline was running wild and it made him as easy to pick up as a puppy before she started to sprint away, running to a familiar face that was filled with a slight sheen of sweat and was focused past them with a bow and arrow. 

Ragnvaldr waited patiently for them to bypass him. Only then did he take a step back with caution, then lowered his weapon to follow. 

A scream of enraged horror sounded behind them. They decided to sprint instead as Enki whispered protective incantations to Gro-goroth's ears, bloodied hands his sacrifice to the bloodthirsty deity. 

They partook to Enki's hovel. He directed them with his ruined fingers. 

"We need to go to my place. It's safer. My wards will keep the bastard away!"

Enki worked through his pain under the pressure, adrenaline and high pain tolerance. He bound the doorknob with a talisman and then began to go from room to room, sprinkling salt over statuettes of his beloved, listening deity.

"Um... Enki?" 

He didn't look up from his sigil-stitched curtains as he drew them closed over the windows. 

"Can... Can I make tea? Help your hands?"

The dark priest sharply turned, ready to yell at her for not being smart enough to follow what he was doing. However, Ragnvaldr was already following his lead to a point. He was already covering up two other windows. 

Enki huffed. "Do whatever you want. I'm still going to lecture you later for trying to follow your dead captain."

The ex-knight took a breath. "But I didn't follow him-"

"Surely you did. The pathway I found didn't lead from your home to the dungeon!"

**"ENOUGH!"**

Ragnvaldr's aggressive howl caused them both to look over. D'arce flinched the hardest as the outlander seethed through gritted teeth.

"Shut. Up. And. Move. We will talk. _Later._" 

Enki looked at those wild eyes of green, those heartless eyes that had seen so much of his wonders and beloveds disappear under the breath of life.

D'arce walked away from Enki with a briskness to her step. She looked at neither man as she tried to maintain her own ground. The dark priest, however, immediately found himself at the hate of Ragnvaldr's eyes.

Then he realized that hated feeling wasn't for him and he let himself settle back into his nightgown like a cat's fur back onto the cat's back.

Ragnvaldr hated the captain to this day. He wanted him dead, even his spirit. 

Enki pointed a bloodied finger at the outlander. "Don't try anything funny, barbarian. He is dead."

A hiss was his reply before Ragnvaldr clenched his hands into tight fists that could break necks. His anger was a spreading virus. Even Enki felt it. 

The sound of a kettle hovering over his cauldron sounded with its metallic swing. D'arce brushed past the priest, a blanket perched between her fingers. 

Enki watched as the woman softly hummed at the outlander, who remained feverish with near-frenzy. Despite that, she took her time in hopping up on her tip toes and letting the blanket drape over his shoulders, trying to provide him comfort even though there was nothing else she could do. It seemed to cool him down. Enough to make him remember something as he began to search his pockets.

"This. This reminds me." 

D'arce tipped her head to the side before he brought out a tiny bag of tea. 

"This is for you. To help you not focus on... on him."

Enki's eyes widened as they all examined it. He crept forward like a slug and immediately let his nose near it.

"A strong smell. Musky. Deep." He pulled back, a little bewildered. "It is oolong tea. I remember having it back when there were celebrations in the academy."

Enki glanced towards the big man, who was finally sitting down.

"How did you get this?" D'arce asked, more curious than anything as she lifted the silk satchel up to her nose. 

Ragnvaldr shook his head. "Just take it."

D'arce's once wet eyes seemed to have forgotten all about her worries as she inhaled the scent softly, looking blissful. 

How the outlander managed to get expensive satchel with its accompanying tea leaves from China, he wouldn't know. But what he did know was that, despite their dispute, Ragnvaldr still went out of his way to find something to help D'arce Cataliss. 

He continued to think about it as they laid low under lantern light, D'arce tending to his ruined fingers like the mother hen that the boys had clearly been missing. 


End file.
